Ear Taco

I caught Zoe’s vomit in my hands today.

It is rainy and gross and I can’t stomach the thought of a day at home with two high energy children. The only alternative is to get out and go. Both kids are thrilled with the idea and happily comply with my requests to get dressed and brush teeth.

Zoe’s behavior is a little funky; she doesn’t eat any breakfast and is crabbier than usual. I blame it on potty training though. She still sometimes gets scared to go #2.

Anypoop, I load the kids in the car with snacks and switch on Pandora and start the drive to the seacoast.

Zachary chats with me the entire way. When the prospect of answering one more of his questions make me want to throw an ice pop at his head, I switch it up and give him an interview about me.

Me: What’s mommy’s favorite thing to do?

Zachary: Play with me and Zoe

Me: If I were an animal, what would I be and why?

Zachary: Eddie the frog* because then you would be my pet forever and I would just be lovin’ you.

* Every summer a frog shows up on our property. We have a stream that runs under the driveway and across our front lawn---it’s not unusual to see a frog. However, Zachary is convinced that we only have one frog and that that frog’s name is Eddie. Every time Eddie shows up, I put him in a bucket and Zach brings him back to the mud.

Me: What’s my favorite food?

Zachary: Ears. No, no. That’s not right. Ummmm…tacos?

Me: What makes me laugh the hardest?

Zachary: Me. Dancin’.

During all of this Zoe is kind of fading in her seat. Her face is droopy and she is quiet. Not good signs.

When we get to town, we head to this fabulous little boutiquey toy store. Zoe refuses to walk. Again, I blame toilet issues and carry her. Plus, Zachary is so psyched for our day that I don’t have the heart to get back in the car and drive home on only suspicion of illness.

Zachary dances around and checks out the books and lego watches. Zoe starts sweating into my neck.

When we are done, we walk to lunch. Zach runs ahead of me on the sidewalks and then wiggles his way back, jumping over muddy puddles along the way.

I still have Zoe in my arms and, now, she is whining.

We are given a great booth right by the window. I slouch down in the plastic seat and lay Zoe across my chest with her head in my neck. She is whimpering. She has no fever but is turning the tell-tale whitish color. She is clammy and cold.

The waiter-a young 20ish year old boy-comes over and takes our order. A huge chocolate milkshake, pancakes and bacon for Zachary. Grilled cheese and a Strawberry smoothie for Zoe (I am still hoping we can turn the day around with some food).

While the waiter delivers our lunch requests to the kitchen, Zachary builds the Eiffel Tower out of creamers, marmalades and a pink crayon.

I reevaluate my daughter.

There is no doubt in my mind that she is going to throw up. And, because I am a second time mom, I do not immediately request the check and flee.

What I do do is inform Zachary that he will need to prepare to be my assistant. When the waiter brings the drinks, I ask him for a plastic bag. Because he is a young dude, he has no idea why I could be making the request and gives me the eye.

I spell it out for him.

I tell him to take a look at my daughter laying in a pool of sweat on my chest. I tell him that unless he wants vomit on his floor he should bring me a bag. And, he should bring it to me much faster than he delivered my son’s chocolate milkshake.

About a half a second later, barf bag in hand, Zachary and I resume normal conversation.

We make it almost all the way through lunch. Zach even butters and syrups and cuts his own pancakes (something I know that he is capable of doing but I normally do for him).

Then Zoe makes the noise.

It’s a cross between a cry and a strangle and I know what is coming. I put her little face in the bag and she lets out an enormous burp and spits up just a tiny bit. Zachary takes a bite of bacon and offers me a napkin.

I wipe Zoe’s face and give her a sip of water and tuck her back into my lap.

At the end of lunch, as I am paying the check, I lay Zoe down in the booth so that I can pull myself together a bit. I’m terribly hot and tired from carrying her and more than a little wiped from trying to keep the day light for Zachary.

She starts to cry and clench and I know I’ve got moments to get her sitting up before she sprays toddler vomit on the head of the woman sitting at the table next to us.

I get her upright.

I get the plastic bag lined up.

And I miss it by just a fraction of a second.

Zoe throws up and I do the only thing I can think to do in that instant; I catch it.

I cup my hands like you would to splash water on your face and I let her throw up right into them.

When she’s done, I wipe us down. I rinse her with water from a glass and I scoop her up. She’s a rag doll.

We head to get ice cream. Zachary chats and smiles. I stop in Starbucks and wash my hands. Zoe weighs about 100 pounds.

We get raspberry sherbet with rainbow sprinkles. Z-man bites the bottom of the cone and attempts to suck the ice cream out the wrong way. He laughs. I get him a cup to hold his drippy treat and we head out to look at boats.

We see a black lab in a pick-up truck.

People eating lunch on a patio.

Tug boats bordered with old tires.

After about ten minutes looking at the water, I break the news to Zach that we finally need to get his sister home to bed. I’m proud of how he’s quick to answer with an “O.K., Mommy”.

It’s clear that she needs to sleep in her cool, quiet room.

And, though I know you may not believe me, I am grateful for the morning.

It was unplanned and really special.

The rest of the day is uneventful.

Zoe continues to recover from whatever bug she picked up at summer camp.

Zachary bounces between playing outside and inside.

I open the windows.

I make dinner.

I write.